


Of Sparks and Stone

by SpideychelleCarwheelerTrash



Category: The Greatest Showman (2017)
Genre: Carlwheeler, F/M, Medieval AU, because why doesn't carwheeler have these yet, carwheeler - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-14
Updated: 2018-06-15
Packaged: 2019-05-23 05:41:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14928216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpideychelleCarwheelerTrash/pseuds/SpideychelleCarwheelerTrash
Summary: Phillip Carlyle is the heir to a title who is expected to carry on a line of nobility. He has spent his whole life being groomed for this one thing, despite his major shortcoming: Phillip's magical abilities, which have been passed down along the family line for as long as the Carlyles have lived, are dormant.Until the foreign daughter of a conquered tribe is gifted to him as a slave, and suddenly something more than infatuation is waking inside of him.





	1. A Gift

**Author's Note:**

  * For [one_way_ride](https://archiveofourown.org/users/one_way_ride/gifts), [MischievousRose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MischievousRose/gifts).



[Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/frowzywriter/playlist/3aPXXzhhoGDQ5UkbhVXPcE)

**Song of the Chapter: "[Yellow Flicker Beat](https://open.spotify.com/track/0Nf53RDPZEjFrQE4B5n6Vf)" by Lorde**

* * *

The stone hallways of Carlyle Hall were as cold and unforgiving as the Carlyles themselves as Phillip strode towards the reception hall, clothed in his best. The deep navy silk of the doublet that was buttoned over his white shirt was restricting, and the young nobleman felt as though he could hardly breathe even in the solitude that he craved so. These stolen moments of peace were the only that he could hope to attain for a long while, especially with guests arriving so soon. If it seemed like the Duke and Duchess Carlyle were obsessed with appearances normally, their desire for perfection only intensified in the presence of company. 

It was this desire that was as crushing as the weight of all the marble that composed the Hall.

He would never be perfect, never had been to begin with, he reminded himself bitterly. He was born wrong, with something missing... The one thing that made the Carlyles such a feared, powerful family in the first place. But the people could not know that, he reminded himself and so their company would not know either. 

Phillip rounded the corner and stopped outside of a massive pair of double doors. He took a moment to himself to draw in a breath, smoothing the cloth of the embroidered vest. Every time he stood before guests, Phillip was pretending, and he knew that it would be that way forever. As long as he lived, it was the lot of a nobleman to be a shapeshifter, assuming whatever form pleased the most important person in the room. Perhaps he was surrounded by all that glittered and shone, but none of it was real, not really. Or maybe it was, and Phillip was the one who was a mirage. It would not have surprised him. Most days, his insides felt like they were turning to dust anyway, starved of anything with substance to keep his soul alive. 

When Phillip was composed and ready to act, he nodded to one of the guards on either side of the door. The man nodded straight ahead, and then the large doors were opened before him to reveal a large parlor of sorts. Though the room might have appeared to be a simple parlor to anyone who looked on from the outside, Phillip knew what everyone else did. Though the room was set so that the guests faced the Duke and Duchess, the chairs in which they sat were embellished to bring to the mind's eye a picture of a throne. It was upon these chairs that the Duke and Duchess Carlyle were seated, and as Phillip entered, his mother looked up and gestured to an empty one.

"Why, Phillip," Charlotte Carlyle hummed pleasantly. "Wonderful of you to join us. Please, be seated and welcome Baron Bennet with us." The Duchess was clad in a richly tailored gown of yellow taffeta, and her wrists and neck practically dripped with jewels. Her face was painted, and a smile that might have been mistaken as anyone else for one of motherly love Phillip recognized as a tight-lipped grimace in his direction. 

"Of course, mother," Phillip responded, moving to seat himself in the slightly less elaborate chair beside his mother. It was into this he relaxed before turning to face the bespectacled baron. Phillip's posture was loose and comfortable, and he knew that he appeared the picture of ease to their guest. Phillip had perfected the skill of feigning relaxation long ago. "And to what do we owe the pleasure, Baron?" 

Phillip raised a hand carelessly, and from across the room, a statue carved from marble adjusted itself slightly with the scraping sound of stone. The baron turned with wide eyes as the visage of the woman shifted, her eyes seeming to follow their guest as he turned back around. The baron gulped from what he had seen, though he fought to hide it. What he had not seen was the small motion of the Duke's hand from within his robes to move the statue himself. He could not possibly know that Phillip was the first Carlyle in a century to be born without it; Phillip was powerless, a mutant, a weakling that would never fully live up to the name he bore.

The name was smothering him, but no one really cared so long as the public could not see it. 

The baron knew his place here. It was his job to appease them, the ones who were higher up on the chain of feudalism. He was in possession of a certain amount of authority under them, but the Duke also had the power to strip everything away with one sentence to the king. It was for this reason that Bennet offered Phillip what he assumed was supposed to be a reserved smile. "I came to inform your Excellencies about the state of their lands," he replied in a voice of calm and reference. "I am pleased to report that your blessed authority has been upheld, despite disturbance." 

"What sort of disturbance?" voiced the Duke. Phillip glanced over at Arthur Carlyle, and the baron did the same. Both knew that when the Duke spoke, it meant that matters of importance were taken place. The baron would have to tread carefully, for if he was found to be at fault, he would be ruined. 

"The return of a nomadic tribe, your Excellency, hoping to settle in the hills of your land," the baron answered carefully. Bennet glanced over at Phillip for a moment, and the young nobleman knew that the baron was making an effort to impress the both of them. After all, the Duke was important, but Phillip would be assuming the title upon the death of his father. It was essential that Bennet remain in both of their favor, for if he outlived the Duke, he would have business before them both. "Their chieftain and warriors were executed, and the rest were taken captive. They are yours, to do with as you please, and they have come here with me so that I may see to it that they are transported wherever you wish." 

The Duke nodded slowly. "Excellent," he murmured. "You and I will speak about what becomes of them in my study following this meeting." 

"Yes, your Excellency," the baron agreed, dipping his head. "But if you will, I have a gift for the young Marquess, if you will." Phillip raised an eyebrow as his title was mentioned. 

"You may proceed," the Duke agreed, glancing over at Phillip. He was used to such addresses and movements of flattery. The baron waved his hand, and the servants who had been standing behind him vanished from the room. 

"Though we eliminated all of the male warriors," the baron began, "we did spare a single male prisoner. He was taught his place, of course. I am told that the chieftain, prior to his death, gave an elevated position to his son and daughter, both of whom we were able to apprehend and take captive. It is the gift of these slaves that I offer to you now, your Excellency." 

The words that the baron spoke caused Phillip's eyes to widen, and he glanced over at his father, momentarily unseated. Phillip had never possessed a slave, nor did he have any wish to. The staff of his household had always seen to his needs, and he did not need any other sort of care. But this was not about what he needed, Phillip understood. This was about domination, about complete humiliation and control over the competition. 

It made his stomach twist. 

Before Phillip could say anything, though he did not know what he would say, the doors opened again. He turned, and when his eyes took in the sight before him, Phillip thought that they had never been wider. Because the baron's servants were leading in a pair of captives, a man and a woman, both with their ankles and wrists shackled with heavy chains. The man was tall with skin of a deep sable, and he wore tattered clothing that Phillip could tell had once been fine. His face was so bruised and bloodied that Phillip could hardly make out his features, and his skin was torn with lacerations and bruising. Every step must have been agony, and yet still he walked with ramrod straight posture and his chin raised like a warrior. Shackles and bruises aside, nothing could strip this man of his pride. 

It was incredible, then, that the man was not the one that Phillip could not look away from. 

The woman beside the warrior was much shorter, and she was different from him in every way possible. Her bronze skin was scrubbed clean, and she wore clean clothing. However, her dress was not of her native clothing-- it was the garb of a courtesan, flimsy and revealing. The woman's face was painted in a false manner, presenting bright red lips and eyes lined with black. Her hair was styled elaborately, and the silver trim of the gown shone against her skin. Though her clothing did little to preserve her modesty, the woman did not flaunt herself in any way. It was not her body that drew Phillip's attention, but the regal posture she held to and the nobility of the way she lifted her chin. Her eyes flashed with an intensity as they met Phillip's own, and they were just as much the eyes of a warrior as those of the man beside her. It did not matter that she was chained and clothed like a harlot; this woman was the very picture of dignity and regality. Anyone could have told him that this woman was his queen, and he would have bowed without a second thought. 

This was not about how they could tend to him. This was about reducing a courageous man to a draft horse and a virtuous woman to a concubine, and it made Phillip ill. 

Still, Phillip knew that he would do nothing more than endanger the pair of them by saying anything. Instead, he nodded, pretending to look them up and down the way that one might examine a horse. He then turned to the baron and deigned to speak. "I thank you for your gift, Baron," Phillip said. He turned to Agatha, a young maid who stood in silence in the corner of the room. "If you could bring the man to the gardens, and the woman to my quarters." 

The maid nodded silently, and the prisoners were handed over to her. She left, and a moment later, the woman and warrior did as well. 

Why was his heart pounding so violently? Even when the gaze was gone, Phillip could not shake the burning feeling that lingered where her eyes met his. Whoever these people were, he would fight to make sure that they were safe, at the very least. His parents, who were currently thanking the baron, would not approve, but what they did not know would not hurt them, really. Phillip would not let them reduce two dignified human beings to little more than animals. Not when they made his blood burn in his veins with something that had not been there before. 

With these thought racing through his mind, it was no wonder that Phillip Carlyle did not notice the gentle thrum that resounded through the stone floor beneath his feet. 


	2. An Agreement

The large corridors of Carlyle Hall were dimly lit, and the chandeliers cast flickering shadows on the stone floors as the maid led Anne to the Marquess's bedroom. Over the past few weeks, the sound of clinking chains had become one that Anne was used to, but the woman took no comfort in the noise, familiar or not. Her skin was raised in goosebumps beneath the flimsy attire she had been given to wear since the sparkling, clear material covered as little of her skin as possible. The silver trim that flowed over the fabric did the real work of covering her, though the job was wanting. Silver followed every curve of her body, and the trim knit together over the more intimate parts of her to cover them. 

Anne knew that these people cared little for her modesty; the silver was only provided to encourage a sense of intrigue. The thought only caused her heart to pound harder, each beat a cry of horror.

The silence that stretched between Anne and the maid became pregnant with expectation, and Anne knew that the girl was going to speak before she did so. "The Marquess is a true man, you know," the young girl informed her as she led Anne onward by her chains. "He is powerful, handsome, rich. You are lucky that it is him, a man so young, that you were given to and not his father, God bless the Duke."

The girl spoke with the sort of tone that one might use with a child, and Anne knew it was because she and her people were considered barbarians. As far as this serving girl was concerned, she was far more civilized than Anne would ever be. The manner in which she was spoken to stung like a blow against the already terrified girl, but she beat back the feeling with desperate blows. This girl knew nothing about her, and as far as she knew, Anne did not even speak English. Anne could use the servant's superiority to her own favor.

The daughter of the Aellan people chose to feed into the assumption; she did not speak, and the girl fell silent. Instead, Anne turned the words over in her head. 'Lucky'... A bitter sort of amusement twisted in her stomach. The emotion was wild and chaotic, the coping mechanism of a girl who was little more than a cornered animal now. To be sold into sexual slavery as a trophy after the slaughter of her people, Anne was considered lucky. To a 'true man,' nonetheless. Anne knew that the only reason she had not been gifted to the Duke himself was that his wife was present. But his son? 

She recalled the man's appearance in her mind. Admittedly, the man with light, golden-brown hair and eyes like ice-chips was attractive. But no 'true man' would willingly force a woman to open herself to him, and so the Marquess would never be a man to her. She recalled the way his eyes had found her own, filled with awe, and shivers went down her spine. 

The chained woman had been so lost in her panic that when they arrived before the massive oaken doors of the chamber, the serving girl had to yank the chains on Anne's wrists and ankles to stop her from walking. The metal dug sharply into the already torn and infected skin, and a little gasp of pain left her lips. The serving girl regarded Anne, and she seemed rather unimpressed as she opened the doors. 

Beyond the massive wooden doors was a bedchamber so exquisite that Anne froze for a moment. She then forced herself to step forward. The chamber had marble floors and walls, the same way that every other room in this place did. These people clearly loved to create the cages in which they lived from stone. Perhaps it was about shows of prestige, but Anne did not know how any stone hall could compare to the exquisite feeling of sleeping beneath thin walls, with almost nothing to separate one from the starry tapestry that connected them to their ancestors. The rest of the room was furnished in pale blue, from the curtains to the coverlet that rested atop the massive four-poster bed that stood on a raised platform. The whole room was furnished with glimmering gold and jewel-encrusted objects. Anne had never been in the presence of such riches, but she did not waste time marveling at the awe. Her heart fluttered like a caged bird in her chest as though it was cramming as many beats into a moment as possible. It was here that they had planned to break her, here that they wanted to reduce her to nothing more than an object.

The maid led Anne to the center of the room and carefully bound the chains to the bedpost. With her wrists shackled close together for limited movement, Anne could not hope to untie them on her own. "There we are," she murmured. Anne knew that she was speaking more out of formality than anything else. "The Marquess should be up, at the latest, in a few hours." Then the girl turned on her heel, and when the doors shut, Anne was left alone.

In the quiet of the empty room, desperation washed over Anne for the first time as she looked at the chains covering her wrists. She began to tug at them, desperate to see if perhaps the bedpost was not as strong as the maid believed. But they did not give, and each pull only tore another cry of pain from Anne's lips. Beneath the metal, her skin was scabbed and infected from weeks of having the manacles yanked. It was with desperation that Anne raised her fingertips together, and she allowed her feelings of horror and panic to feed them with energy. Lightning, purple and bright and sparking, crackled across her fingers-- but before she could have any success, the electrical current chose to flow through the metal of her chains instead. Though the lightning did not hurt her, it did heat up the chains, and Anne knew that no matter where she directed the magic it would return to the metal. It was for this reason that the daughter of the chief, heir to the Aellan people did not wear bracelets. 

The magic that lived in the blood of Aellan chieftains would do her no good here. 

She saw no way to remove them herself, at least not in any controlled manner. Anne would have to be careful here... She was desperate, and so her mind returned to the idea of the one weapon that she had of which they knew not. However, the uniquely Aellan ways that she knew to escape were not predictable while her wrists were encased in metal, and when her emotions were running rampant, any use of her abilities could be dangerous.

She saw no way to remove her bonds herself, but if she was not mistaken, the Marquess would have to. She was neither hysterical in her behavior, nor did she appear dangerous or capable of fighting back. These people did not know the ways of the Aellans, so they could not know that she, the woman who was now the chieftainess upon her father's death, was trained in combat. Even so, she needed to wait for the right moment to strike. If the Marquess wished to take her to his bed, he would have to remove the bonds. It was then that Anne would attack him, and then she would take to the halls to find her brother an the rest of the Aellan slaves. She would free as many as possible, though Anne knew it was likely a suicide mission. 

She would rather die attempting to free her people than live as a slave. 

Anne did not know how much time passed as she stood in the bedchamber of an unfamiliar man, alone. Every moment felt like an hour, an hour of uncertainty as she fought to keep panic from washing over her. It was here that she made her plans; Anne would attempt to travel through the back hallways used only by servants since they were more likely to take her to where her people were kept without being seen. She would attack a servant girl, given the chance-- not a killing blow, only enough to temporarily render someone unconscious. She could take the uniform and use it to pass unnoticed. Anne's mind was racing so quickly that she did not, at first, notice the sound of the doors unlocking. 

As soon as she recognized the sound, Anne turned to face it, and her heart hammered in her chest. She was prepared for the fight that she knew would come the moment he removed her shackles. When the doors opened, the Marquess was revealed to be standing beyond them, clothed in all of his fineries. What caught Anne off-guard, however, was the presence of a blonde woman at his side. The woman appeared to be in her thirties or forties. She was quite lovely, and she was clothed respectably as she moved to step inside with him. The doors shut behind them with an awful sort of finality.

Anne already knew that the Marquess had to be a twisted man to accept her as some gift, but coercing another woman into joining whatever depraved activities he wished to engage in? That was even more despicable than anything she had ever imagined. 

For a moment, all was silent, and the man and woman both studied her. Anne made sure not to lower her chin, and she only stared straight ahead. She was terrified, and she was sure it showed, but that did not stop her from at least trying to appear dignified. The strange thing was that the Marquess's blue eyes never left her own sharp, kohl-lined stare. She had assumed that his gaze would rake up and down her body, but then she supposed they all knew that he had all the time in the world for lust. 

"Poor child." The woman was the first to speak, and Anne's eyes flickered to the blonde. Her gaze held pity, an emotion that caused extreme discomfort to wash over Anne. "Alone in a strange land, with no idea what is to become of her or those she loves." 

Before Anne could stop herself, she was speaking. "I am no child, and I do believe I know exactly what you intend for me." The words may have come from a desperate woman, but she made sure that her voice was level. 

For a moment, Anne could not help but relish in the surprise that flickered across their faces. She had unsettled them, and any little victory was something Anne could hold on to now. The Marquess was the first to regain his composure, and his blue eyes locked on her own. "You need not be afraid," he told her, and his voice was surprisingly gentle despite the authority it held. It took Anne by surprise, and her breath caught in her throat as she looked at him. His eyes were filled with a wonder as he looked upon her, and it made her skin tingle with an unusual warmth. 

"Only a man would say that, Your Excellency," the blonde woman retorted, shooting him an exasperated look. The informal matter the woman used surprised Anne, but she was careful not to show it. Whatever the dynamic was between these two, they knew one another well, and there was fondness between them. "What our dear Marquess is trying to say is that we are here to help you. Nothing beyond that will happen in this bedchamber, and certainly nothing that merits such a barbaric manner of dress. Fetch her something to cover herself with, will you, Phillip?"Anne's head spun as the Marquess nodded, moving to what appeared to be a massive armoire. Her gaze followed him with his every step, and each one seemed to carry confidence and nobility. 

Anne struggled to understand exactly what the woman meant, and slowly she opened her mouth. "I... I was under the impression that I was brought here to be a concubine," Anne said quietly. Though she tried to keep her tone neutral, disgust crept into her voice as she struggled to say the last word. The Marquess approached her with a black traveling cloak in his hands, and Anne stiffened as he came near. The man froze, immediately seeming to recognize what he was doing. 

The nobleman took a deep breath, and Anne watched as his eyes became slightly distant. Everything about this man was dignified, from his posture to the slightest movement of his hand. When he spoke, however, it was with a quiet gentleness that contradicted the way that Anne had been treated since the fall of her people. "I need to undo your chains. I have no desire for any sort of concubine, but before the baron, I had to appear to accept. My hope is to get you to safety. It will not be anything like the life you are used to, but it will be better than this. I cannot do any of this, however, while you are still chained." 

She flinched as he spoke, but slowly relief washed over her. He did not plan on taking her by force, he planned on working to help her. She could not hurt him, not now... Showing her abilities to him, as using both of combat and the more unique aspects of her nature would be playing a card that would be better kept in her hand. She would listen and wait to hear what he told her before she made any moves. Until then, it was best to let them think she was completely helpless.

"And what of my people?" Anne asked quietly as she extended her wrists to him. She did not yield to his eye contact as he raised a key to the shackles. They broke open to reveal the bruised, infected skin beneath. Anne did not acknowledge it; she did not want his pity. The Marquess, however, winced. He made a move to touch the skin as though it were an afterthought, and Anne yanked her hands away from him. Immediately, he stepped back. 

"My apologies," he said quickly, stepping back and folding his hands behind his back. The blonde woman behind him shook her head. Anne pretended not to see it as she pulled the black cloak over her shoulders and used it to preserve her modesty. "While you waited here, I negotiated with my parents. The women and children of your tribe... Face a difficult dilemma. Many, I regret to inform you, have been sold. I have the records of the transactions in my possession, but there is little that I can do with them at the moment. I was able to negotiate with my parents so that a small portion of your people remain under our control. They will be taken in to do the work of servants around the estates. It will be difficult, but they will be fed and given shelter. It is not much, but it is the most that I can do." 

"But they will be slaves for the rest of their lives," Anne pressed. Her eyes were narrowed slightly as she faced the man before her. Grief, bitter and strong, filled Anne. Some of her people were safe, but others were lost from her forever... The ancestors were surely mourning at the plight of their posterity, the same way everything in her mourned now. She did not lower her chin, did not show any signs of submission to him. He paused for a moment, and then he took a deep breath and continued on. 

"Perhaps," he replied. "As long as my parents are alive, they will remain servants, certainly. It is true that many are gone, and I cannot speak to their futures. However, once the responsibility for the estate is turned over to me, if you and your brother would be willing-" 

"If _I_ am willing," Anne corrected him. "My father is dead, yes. In accordance with the law of the Aellan people, I assume leadership." 

The Marquess appeared taken aback, but then he slowly nodded and regained his composure. If she had not known better, Anne would have said he sounded slightly breathless when he spoke. "Of course. Then, if you are willing, you and I can make some attempt to change this. I do not know what I will be able to do, I do not know if anything will we able to be done at all. But there is a chance." Though he spoke of things over which he had control, his voice was quiet. She could only assume that what he was proposing was something that he endeavored to do alone, and that he did not yet have the support he needed. 

Anne could hardly believe what she was hearing. In all of their history, the Aellan people had not been accepted by anyone; they were turned away, and so they moved on with their tents and their wagons to new lands, staying in one place as long as possible before they were forced to move on. But here was the Marquess, telling her that she and her people could find safety under him... Her heart began to slow down, ever so slightly.

"We are herbalists and healers," Anne responded slowly, "as well as subsistence farmers and hunters. Our women are skilled weavers and tanners as well, and we can create quite valuable textiles and hides. If you are interested in a trade agreement, I am sure that it could be arranged." 

Her mind spun. They were scattered, broken down. There was little else that she could do, other than accepting the olive branch he was holding out for her. The arrangement that he was proposing was the sort of thing that only happened in mythology, in the past of their people that was obscured by the mist of passing time. Even so, she could not allow herself to become so hopeful. There was a large chance that this would never come to pass. "But why? No one of your name has ever expressed anything but ill will towards us, and now you have won." 

He stared back at her, and for a moment, the distance that was between them did not exist. "I am not like others of my name," he said softly, and his voice had a husky quality to it that caused Anne's heart to skip a beat. "I see an opportunity for growth and change, and I will take it. I regret that I could not save many of your women and children... But there are some that I can help deliver from a fate worse than death. It is true that the forcing of an entire tribe into slavery is acceptable by society's standards, but I think it is wrong."

"As do I," Anne murmured softly, and for a moment she turned her gaze to the window. "The Aellan tribe was not meant for this, but if what you say is true, then the sun may shine on us again."

"I do not pretend to think that this agreement is without flaw, and if it did come to pass it would be a miracle," the Marquess replied. His voice was grave, and he ran an agitated hand through his hair as he followed her gaze. The blonde woman behind them was quiet, but Anne could tell that she was watching, listening. "That said, it will not stop me from trying. Until that day comes, I do not know what it is that I can do for you other than what I have already done. I have seen to it that your brother was assigned to work in the gardens. It is difficult work, yes, but it is nothing like the plans that my mother and father had for him. It was difficult enough to keep your people under the control of my household, and my mother and father agree that it is dangerous to keep any of your people too close together. They will be spread out across the workforce and kept busy, day and night." 

Anne's heart ached as he spoke. This was the darkest hour for her people. They were scattered, destitute, and had just watched their homes burn to the ground, and what killed her was that there was little she could do to deliver them. Even if she could manage to free them all, where would they go? Their works, all of the fruit of their labor that might have had some value, had been reduced to ash. Like it or not, Anne was forced to cooperate with this man. 

"I fear that there is nothing that I can do to keep you from the same fate." His voice was quiet and sympathetic. Her gaze snapped to his, and her eyes blazed as she looked at him. 

"You think," she murmured in a voice of deadly calm, "that I would be content to sit idly by while my people were condemned to bondage, even if I did have a choice?" He flinched, but before he could speak, she continued.

"These people are my blood, and we come from the same ancestors. If they suffer, I suffer with them. If they rejoice, then so do I. You monarchs have no knowledge of who we are and how we operate. Your father's men know nothing of the cultures they burn to the ground and the people they reduced to chattel. Our leaders do not have the luxury,  _Your Excellency,_ of distancing ourselves from the people we rule. I am their chieftainess, but do not think for an instant that I am some delicate princess incapable of work. Our leaders understand that authority and respect are earned, and I have been prepared to earn both since I was a young girl. To you, my people may be something that can be bought and sold, but we are warriors. Do not underestimate them, and do not make the mistake  of doing the same to me." 

Her eyes flashed, and his did not leave her face. Anne drew herself up to her full height, and though she was shorter than him, every inch of her body stood with a nobility that her mother and father had instilled in her long ago. The Marquess beheld her, and she saw that same awe in his eyes that had been there before. She loathed it with her whole heart, wished that it would leave so that her skin did not tingle and her breath was not held captive. But they were inches apart, and the dignity in her stance was mirrored in his. They were two sides of the same coin, at a crossroads.

"I apologize," he murmured. He blinked several times, and for some reason, the blonde woman behind him seemed amused. "It was wrong of me to assume." 

"Yes, it was," she whispered. Anne felt discomfort crawl over her skin, and she realized that it began now. Now, she was going to assume the role of a servant, alongside the rest of her people, and he was one of their masters. She stood before him, a slave like the rest of her people. "What shall we do, now that this has been established... Your Excellency?" She slowly lowered her chin. Her pride stung as she did so, but she knew where she stood now. It was as a servant, and if it was the role she had to assume, she would do so willingly. 

The Marquess's eyes widened, and he seemed surprised by the change in her behavior. However, she knew he understood, and he took a deep breath as he straightened slightly. The nobleman glanced in the direction of the blonde woman. "This is the head of the staff," he replied, gesturing to her. The woman offered Anne a nod, and there was a mixture of sympathy and worry in her eyes. "Her name is Charity Barnum, though you will address her as 'matron.' She assumes responsibility for the servants, and she will see to it that you are informed of your new position." He paused, and then he said, "You know that this conversation, the day of which we speak, must not be mentioned outside these walls to anyone but your own people. Your identity, when you leave this room, is not that of a chieftainess but that of a servant. It is for your own safety, and until the day of which we speak has come, it is how things must be." 

"I understand, your Excellency," she murmured. Every syllable ached as it left her lips with an awful finality. Anne turned to face the matron, and she gave the woman a respectful nod. "It is a pleasure to meet you, matron." She dipped into a graceful curtsy, and the movement seemed to catch both the matron and the Marquess off-guard.

The woman seemed surprised by the fluid nature of the movement, but she nodded in acceptance of the show of respect. "Of course," she replied. "What are you called, dear?"

"My name is Andromede," Anne replied, straightening up. Her head was kept bowed, now. "However, most of my people have shortened versions of our names, and mine is Anne." 

"Excellent," Charity replied, and there was a slight smile on her face as she moved to approach the doors. "If you will come with me, we will see to it that you are taken to the servants' quarters. It is nearly time for dinner anyway." Anne nodded in reply, and as the matron moved to lead her from the Marquess's quarters, she felt a sense of dread lower over her. This was the beginning of the end of the Aellans as she knew them, and now every day would be a battle for survival. 


End file.
